


remember us

by cydonic



Series: do you remember? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9164548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: Sherlock didn’t spend time with his brother sober, willingly, unless there was something he gained from it. Post-TST.





	

**Author's Note:**

> some very vague TST spoilers! a sequel of sorts to don't forget it was real, my other mycroft&sherlock brother fic. this can be read without reading the first one but there are some references across both! I just REALLY LOVE THEM and I'm glad we got some brother interaction this season :)

_Where are you?_

Mycroft, understandably, is a busy person. He does not have time for messages from his brother that don’t immediately pertain to important issues in his life, and so he rolls his eyes and places his phone back down on his desk.

It’s a mere five minutes before the damned thing vibrates again, and when Mycroft lifts it up the sender and the message are exactly the same. Mycroft heaves a long-suffering sigh, and quickly types out a return message.

_What?_

It’s intentionally vague and blunt, and Mycroft takes a moment to turn his phone completely silent after he presses send. Sometimes he wishes he had windows in his office, for moments like these, when the fluorescent lights have him convinced it’s midday even when he’s been at work for over twelve hours. There’s a headache forming behind one temple, he’s made no progress on his work for that day, and Sherlock is messaging him.

Mycroft lasts three full minutes before checking his phone again.

_I didn’t realise that being Wikipedia meant you weren’t Merriam-Webster. Where are you is a fairly simple phrase, should we hire you a translator?_

He’s decidedly not smiling when he replies to Sherlock’s message. The boy is downright irritating.

_I am at work like the majority of functioning adults in the world. Why are you bothering me?_

Mycroft knows he’s kidding himself but maintains the silent setting on his phone, leaving it upright beside his left hand. He attempts once more to read the line that has been alluding him for the past hour at least – the words are processed, but only on an individual level, not as a sentence. Mycroft can’t make sense of them together, of what they _mean_. He scrubs a hand over his face.

_Because I’d like to know when you are coming home. The government doesn’t take calls after 4:30pm, what could you possibly be doing?_

If Mycroft were to answer honestly, what he was doing would be absolutely nothing. He stands and tidies his desk a little, though it’s always in a state of neatness, and collects his coat from the back of his chair. There’s no way he’s leaving because _Sherlock Holmes_ messaged him about it, but rather he’s not achieving much remaining in the office.

A glance at his pocket watch verifies the time – _9:48pm_.

_Working. It’s late, shouldn’t you be off butchering Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto by now?_

He calls ahead to have a car bought around for him, and – after triple-checking the locks on his office door – departs.

_I thought I’d attempt Clair de Lune. Would you like to hear?_

_You don’t own a piano._

Is Mycroft’s initial reply, and then, immediately afterwards:

_I will be fine without hearing it, thank you._

Outside the weather is, in true London fashion, poorly. Although it is dark out, the grey clouds are unmistakable as they interrupt the view of the waning moon. Mycroft looks up at it and sighs, keeping an eye out for the headlights that would soon be headed his way.

_You’re correct, I don’t have a piano. You do._

Mycroft is only just settled in to the car when he reads Sherlock’s response, and it draws a very audible sigh from him. He presses to call instead of replying by message and lifts the phone to his ear. Sherlock surely has his phone in hand – when doesn’t he? – yet the call rings out. There’s no message bank, just a sudden, jarring beep and the call is disconnected.

_Go home._

Mycroft’s final message is awarded the last word. Sherlock says nothing in response for Mycroft’s entire ride home, and he foolishly thinks to himself that he might have won. Sherlock didn’t often break into his home, but it was known to happen. He’d visited much more in previous years, before John and the faked death and the secret agent wife saga unfolded, but they were for less savoury reasons.

That was not to say that Mycroft didn’t miss having his brother around, but he’d been better with John so Mycroft had been rendered useless. He didn’t fit into their equation any more, except for Sherlock to call in for favours (an account which balanced into the negatives now, yet Sherlock continued making withdrawals).

When Mycroft is dropped off at the stoop of his home, there is a light on inside. With eyes cast briefly skyward in a silent prayer, Mycroft tests the door handle – it’s unlocked. He pushes it open gently, and glances about in the dim entry.

“Sherlock?” He asks, but is answered by the not _entirely_ appalling sound of someone playing piano.

Mycroft enters and locks the door behind him, before hanging his coat and placing his briefcase down beside a table. He makes his way into the loungeroom and sits down, watching Sherlock play. He’d never had lessons as a child, but Sherlock was always more musically minded than Mycroft – Mycroft kept the baby grand primarily as a conversation piece.

Sherlock finishes his piece with a flourish, the room suddenly, distinctly quiet.

“That’s not Clair de Lune,” Mycroft observes wryly from the lounge.

Sherlock does not turn. “You said you didn’t want to hear it.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “That’s true,” he concedes at last.

The quiet feels heavier now that they’ve acknowledged each other. Mycroft tries not to fidget but he does unlock his phone and then lock it again. Sherlock’s fingers ghost over the keys but no sound is made.

It’s Sherlock who eventually breaks the silence. “You saw it?”

“Saw what?”

“Mary’s message,” Sherlock turns around on the piano bench, stares at him, expression blank.

Ah, that. Mycroft remembered now. “You sent it to me.”

“But have you _seen_ it?”

For the first time in a long time, Mycroft can see something other than arrogance on Sherlock’s face. He looks stressed out.

“Of course I have. Why?”

Sherlock runs a hand over his face, pulling at his hair lightly. He leans back against the piano, and his elbow catches a few keys. He opens his mouth to say something, and then seems to rethink it. Then, abruptly, Sherlock turns back to the piano – plays the opening to Für Elise. He changes his mind and stops jarringly in the middle of playing.

“It’s my fault,” Sherlock says, head bowed.

Mycroft knows exactly what he’s referring to – the way Mary had bled out on the floor of the Aquarium. Dire stuff. “No it isn’t.”

Sherlock slams his hand down on to the piano, and the sound is horrendous. He says something over top of it that Mycroft misses, but can assume.

“Sherlock, what happened to her is _not_ your fault.”

“I made a vow!” Sherlock yells and stands, walks off into the adjoining sitting room so Mycroft can’t see him.

Mycroft considers following, but then decides to stay where he is. Sherlock is a lot like a cornered animal – chasing him down and caging him had never worked except to drive him further away. Mycroft knew that from experience. Sometimes he still saw his brother, hunched over the toilet, or standing amidst a sprinkling of shattered glass.

Sometimes he still saw his brother smile, honestly, and he knew that wasn’t real either.

Sherlock returns and bypasses Mycroft to go into the kitchen. “I ordered dinner. I didn’t realise you’d be so late. It’s cold now.”

When he comes back, he dumps a bag onto the coffee table in front of him. Beside them clatters two bowls, cutlery inside. Mycroft raises an eyebrow in question, and Sherlock irritably throws a hand out at the bag in a gesture that screams _bloody open them already_.

Inside Mycroft finds three containers which look to be his three favourite dishes from the local Thai restaurant. “Good choice.”

“Natural oils on the menu. You point at your choice every time. It wasn’t hard,” Sherlock remains edgy and irritated, even as they dish up their meals and start eating in silence.

Mycroft has made small talk with everyone from the homeless man outside his local corner shop to the Queen of England, and he’s made it well. With Sherlock, every idea suddenly evaporates from his mind. He can’t think.

“Margaret Thatcher, then,” Sherlock says finally, placing his half-finished bowl on the table. “What’s so special about her?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and smiles, just a little. “You know who Margaret Thatcher is, Sherlock. Don’t play dumb, the wind may change one day.”

“No, I really don’t,” Sherlock counters, curling himself up on the edge of the lounge. His long legs fold up surprisingly neatly. “Tell me about her.”

“You really don’t know about our longest-serving Prime Minister?” Mycroft asks, and very clearly does not believe Sherlock as he shakes his head. “First female in office?”

“Never heard of her.”

And then Sherlock smiles. It’s very, very faint – almost a ghost of a smile, but it’s there. For once it’s not a malicious gesture, and it’s not there because he knows something Mycroft doesn’t. It’s just existing there, on Sherlock’s strained face.

Mycroft shows mercy on him, and mercy is a half-hour run-down on The Iron Lady and her legacy in the United Kingdom. Both meals wind up finished by the time Mycroft is done. He makes a note to mark on his calendar that he spoke, uninterrupted, for thirty minutes – a miracle, as anyone who knows Sherlock Holmes could easily verify.

“You didn’t reference Wikipedia,” Sherlock notes, when Mycroft finishes speaking.

“Referencing Wikipedia?” Mycroft asks as he stands and collects their dishes and leftovers. “You heathen.”

Sherlock laughs, and Mycroft has to force himself not to stop and take note of that, too. He tidies up after dinner, which is more mess than he’s seen in months – Mycroft does not entertain often, if at all. Sherlock is his only semi-consistent visitor, and it’s been years since he invaded Mycroft’s personal space. Longer since he’d done so sober.

“Will you be staying the night?” Mycroft asks as he returns to the lounge room, but does not sit. He’ll need to be back at work within eight hours, and as much as he’s actually _enjoying_ Sherlock’s company he can’t prioritise that over sleep.

Sherlock looks uncertainly down at his lap. “John doesn’t want me around.”

Mycroft may not understand humans, but he understands Sherlock. John has his own place, as does Sherlock, and whilst the two comments seem unrelated he can see the connection.

“You’re welcome here as long as you leave my piano in peace.”

“I’ll make no such promise,” Sherlock counters, but his shoulders have eased down a little.

Mycroft feigns irritation, shaking his head. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Mycroft,” Sherlock says once he’s turned around and is headed upstairs.

Mycroft hears nothing all night, thankfully, and is up early to go to work the next day. He holds no hopes that Sherlock will still be around, but the spare bedroom door is shut tight when he heads downstairs the next morning. On the kitchen counter is a slip of paper, folded up delicately, and Mycroft feels his heart sink.

Sherlock only left notes with very specific intentions – to tell him what he’d poisoned his body with. For a horrible moment, Mycroft thought that was it: Sherlock had spent one last peaceful night with him, a farewell of sorts, and John’s hatred had driven him to end it all.

Then Mycroft corrects himself. Moriarty still exists, and Sherlock dying would be the easy way out of their stupid game. Maybe then Sherlock was high all night when they conversed, and the note was to make him aware of it. Sherlock didn’t spend time with his brother sober, willingly, unless there was something he gained from it.

Mycroft doesn’t believe in drawing things out, so he unfolds the piece of paper to get to the writing inside.

_Thank you._


End file.
